


(under)waterscape

by monarchs



Category: Inception (2010), The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Universe - The Old Guard, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aquaphobia, Child Death, Drowning, Immortals, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Slice of Life, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:42:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29727825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monarchs/pseuds/monarchs
Summary: Eduardo has to live with the horrors of WWII, his incurable thalassophobia and fickle immortality.And now,Mark.
Relationships: Chris Hughes & Dustin Moskovitz, Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Prompt Network





	(under)waterscape

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the awesome Q! Without them, this would be riddled with mistakes and inconsistencies.
> 
> Written for the prompts "Underwater" and "Hackers" from The Prompt Network (check out the collection!)
> 
> #revivetsn2k21
> 
> Warnings for some minor violence. If there's anything trigger-y that I haven't tagged, please let me know.

The average depth of the ocean is around 11,811 feet. 

There’s hardly any light past 1,000, which is about the deepest a functioning U-class submarine can go. 

But everything finds its way to the bottom eventually, and a U-boat is no exception.

Light had been, however, the least of Eduardo’s problems. A U-class submarine like the HMS Untamed had a submerged displacement weight of 730 tons, and the pressure at a depth of 10,000 feet would mean something like 300 times ambient pressure. Hypothetically, it wouldn’t hurt crushing under that weight because it would happen so fast. Every submariner believes it to be the swiftest death one could ever ask for, and it had always been small mercies like that that kept them from choosing any other nightmare of war.

But Eduardo’s leg had been caught under the ruins of the sunken WWII submarine, and he hadn’t known that he was fucking immortal.

So it hurt. A lot.

Turns out eternity puts swift deaths into perspective.

His lungs collapsed so many times he lost count, and while screaming into the ocean made everything worse, he couldn’t help it. He screamed and screamed, under the weight of the world.

He still dreams about it all sometimes: the sheer pain, the extreme cold, the smothering darkness, the loneliness of an unsolicited forever.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eduardo met Dustin Moskovitz in his econ class in 2003. It’s a pivotal point in time for Eduardo, because Dustin would later introduce Eduardo to Chris Hughes, and, most importantly, to Mark Zuckerberg. 

And Mark changed everything.

“‘In the long run, we are all dead,’” the professor quotes. He scans the rows of students. “Now, who said that?”

Eduardo remembers John Maynard Keynes. Just barely. When the Second World War had begun, the economist published essays arguing for workers to lend money to the government, on top of higher taxation. Eduardo had once shaken hands with him at Cambridge. In 1935.

“No one?”

Dustin, who’s sitting in the row before Eduardo’s, doesn’t raise his hand when he answers, “Keynes, sir.”

The professor nods. “Very good, …uh. What’s your name?”

“Moskovitz. Dustin Moskovitz, sir.”

“Alright, Dustin. And what has Mr. Keynes contributed to macroeconomics?”

Dustin scratches the back of his neck. “Uh. Keynesian economics, sir?”

“Care to expand?”

Dustin swallows audibly and takes a few seconds. “Um. It’s basically letting the government have a say to better improve sectors in the short-term?” 

Eduardo smiles. 

“Not a bad start, but rather vague. What else?” the professor prompts. When Dustin doesn’t answer, the professor starts looking around the room. “Anyone want to add to that?"

“Keynes put importance on the short-term because he didn’t believe that economic equilibrium could be achieved from waiting. He didn’t believe that because, let’s be real, we aren't immortal. It’s why he kept pushing these theories of government involvement and short-term change instead of laissez-faire. He wanted to figure out what happened during the Great Depression back in the 1930s. Great guy but,” Eduardo sits back, bored, “in the long run, we all die.” 

After the class, Dustin wraps an arm around Eduardo’s shoulders and says, “hey, I’m Dustin. That answer kicked butts. Where are you from? You have an accent. British? Pretty cool. Anyways. Want to hang? I live in Kirkland. You?”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eduardo lived in the shadows throughout the 70s and 80s. He had nothing from his past, save for his father's signet ring, left cold on Eduardo's gravestone. The last vestige of his old life.

He stayed at libraries most of the time, kept up with the evolution of technology. That was where he picked up meteorology, amongst other topics. He had been so obsessed, devouring books one after the other, and it only made him hungrier. 

It was how he made himself three-hundred grand one summer betting on oil futures. 

Life could have been simple if he continued this way. Simple, but not easy.

In 2002, he caved. He couldn't stand it anymore, slipping in and out of libraries, shadows, history, like he lived in another dimension from the rest of the world. 

For years he kept human contact to a minimum, shunned people who tried to reach out to him, rejected humanity. 

But nearly sixty years spent either drowning, reading books, or reliving the war in his sleep. He’d had enough.

He wanted, needed a break. 

And even though he knew, even though he could feel to the marrow of his bones that it was going to be a grave mistake, he had thought, how bad could things get? He was an adept combatant, a resourceful guy, a cynical immortal bored out of his mind. 

He could handle and survive anything.

Anything.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Shark Week’s on.”

“Mark! Wardo! Shark Week!” Dustin shouts, joining Chris on the couch.

Eduardo smiles briefly, drinking from his bottle of beer. “I’ll pass.”

“Mark!” Dustin shouts again. “Maaaaark!”

“You don’t like that kind of stuff?” Mark asks Eduardo instead.

“No, it’s, um.” Eduardo rubs his cheek nervously. “Sharks are okay, really. It’s the ocean I’m no good with. Anyways, I can— I’ll— I’m going to—” He grabs a magazine from the table. “—catch up on the latest Economist.”

“Thalassophobia,” Mark murmurs. It catches Eduardo by surprise. He’d never thought about it like that. 

“Yeah. I guess,” Eduardo says, then exhales. He can hear the sound of water rushing in his ears. “Something like that.”

Mark sits back and studies Eduardo.

“Mark?” Dustin shouts. “Whoa! Shark!” Dustin ducks into Chris’s chest. Chris sighs.

Mark grabs a book, settles on his bed (where Eduardo had planned to sit), and starts reading, ignoring Dustin completely. The lamplight traces Mark’s profile softly.

Eduardo catches himself staring.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“They’re hacking,” Eduardo observes, licking his lips.

“Yes, all behind a Pix Firewall Emulator. But here’s the beauty.”

“What’s the beauty?” 

Mark does this slight twitch of his lips, this... brief smirk, a hint of confidence, poise, level-headedness that drives Eduardo mad. Absolutely mad. 

And he can’t stop looking. 

And it’s at that point that he knows, with such clarity and misery, that Mark will be his undoing. 

“Every tenth line of code written, they have to drink a shot. And hacking’s supposed to be stealth, so anytime the server detects an intrusion, the candidate responsible has to drink a shot. I also have a program running that has a pop-up window appear simultaneously…” 

Mark’s words drown in the laughter and cheers of the crowd, in the music that Dustin blasts, but his passion emanates like nothing Eduardo’s ever seen.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Months pass. Eduardo orchestrates his own exit when he realizes he’s come too close to the point of no return. He emails instructions to Sean anonymously, plays cupid and matches Sean with Sharon, who lives across Mark’s Palo Alto house. He then connects Sean with Peter Thiel, hands Sean all the weapons, all his demons. 

The rest is history. 

It hurt. Much like thirty years of endless drowning hurt. 

Maybe it hurt worse because Mark was, still is, everything Eduardo needed, wanted, desired.

Eduardo is an immortal. Doesn’t mean he’s bulletproof. It sure doesn’t mean he’s a saint either.

So it hurt.

Really hurt.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
His nightmares alternate between oceans and Mark. 

Mark at the Kirkland suite; mobs of dark crabs, ephemeral octopuses. Mark at Palo Alto; the lonely lullaby of a whale. Mark at the Facebook headquarters; pitch darkness. Mark in the yellow light at the backdoor of an AEPi party; Eduardo drowning and drowning and drowning.

Eduardo signs the papers. He flies to Singapore with the settlement money. He gives up his U.S. citizenship soon after, tries to erase his traces and leave behind the name Eduardo Saverin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“What are you reading?” Eduardo asks. He ducks down, trying to glance at the cover of Mark’s book. They’re eating lunch at Grendel’s Den. There are sunbeams across the tables, over the back of his hand. It’s warm.

“Ovid’s Metamorphoses.” 

Eduardo nods. He read it about eighty years ago, give or take. “You like myths?”

Mark looks up at Eduardo. He seems unimpressed by Eduardo’s question. 

Eduardo licks his lips. “I mean, is this for class or leisure?”

“Neither,” Mark answers, putting the book down.

“Then—”

“Ninety-nine percent of stories across the world follow patterns derived from them,” Mark explains. “It’s kind of like reading ancient code.” 

“That’s a unique way of looking at it,” Eduardo says. 

Mark frowns. “You don’t like eggs.”

Eduardo freezes. “What?”

“You’re taking out the eggs from the sandwich. Again,” Mark says as he eyes Eduardo’s plate.

Eduardo laughs nervously. He can’t stand eggs because it’s what he ate the most back when he was a submariner during WWII. Submarine sailors are now given the best food to compensate for long hours of darkness and cramped space, but people were less humanitarian back then, and egg products were the easiest to conserve. 

“Once you figure it out, it’ll be like holding the key to history,” Mark says. “And the future.”

Eduardo snaps out of it. “What?” 

“The myths. Their patterns,” Mark clarifies. “Jason… Theseus, Heracles, and Perseus. All of them follow similar structural elements.”

Eduardo relaxes into his seat. “Right. And they all end tragically.” 

Mark smiles briefly. “Of course there’s the one percent of stories that stray from traditional tropes.”

Eduardo nods. “Happily ever afters?” 

Mark eyes the eggs on the side of Eduardo’s plate. “Can I have your eggs?” 

Eduardo scoffs. He proffers his plate and says, “yeah. Sure. Dig in.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eduardo Saverin turns out to be difficult to bury forever. Sooner than later a private detective starts investigating Eduardo. It’s not so much trouble as inconvenience. 

Eduardo doesn’t bother asking for the detective’s first name before he shoots him point-blank through the head, wipes his gun, and disappears into the shadows. It’s hard, having to shut out his emotions like this, but infinite time makes strangers look like drops in the ocean. He knows if he lets his guard down he might experience things worse than thirty years of drowning.

It doesn’t stop at the detective, of course, and Eduardo doesn’t expect it to end. People won’t stop sleuthing, sniffing his tracks, wondering who he is, what he is, why he hasn’t gone out like a candle after all these years. 

But eventually it becomes quotidian. Routine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Loneliness is crushing because of the memories.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Ed, it’s seven. Come on. Get up.” 

Eduardo wakes up abruptly and throws a punch in the direction of the voice, but his fist is stopped easily, gently. 

The noise of water rushing outside brings Eduardo back to reality, and he relaxes as he remembers where he is. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, Arthur.” 

“Nightmare?” 

“Yeah,” Eduardo responds, sitting up only to hit his head against the bottom of the top bunk. He exhales deeply and presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. “I dreamt about drowning. Again.” He swings his legs over the edge and hunches over his knees.

“No one’s going to drown,” Arthur says, mostly to end that topic than to reassure Eduardo. Arthur sits down on the other end of the bunk and starts taking his boots off.

Eduardo sighs. “How’s Kenneth?”

“Not good, I’m afraid.” Arthur sounds nervous. He stretches out his legs and makes room for himself on the narrow bunk. “He’s convinced there’s no war up there and that we’re trapped in this steel coffin. I don’t blame him. No one does. We haven’t surfaced in three months, and food is starting to dwindle. Anyways, Bill’s alone in the sound room. You should go before he starts crying.”

Eduardo sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I should. No Wolves in sight?”

“No Wolves in sight.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Don’t go in,” Mark says when Eduardo comes up the stairs. Mark is exiled from the suite, waiting outside the door. He’s on the floor, in shorts and flip-flops, kneecaps white, laptop on his lap, seemingly unbothered by the cold or lack of desk.

Eduardo stares at the door for a few seconds. “You mean…”

“Chris and Dustin.”

“What—” 

“—arguing. Can’t concentrate. I was waiting for you.”

Eduardo blinks. “Really?”

Mark doesn’t even look up. “Yeah.”

“Um, okay, I’m here?” Eduardo scratches his cheek.

Mark closes the lid of his laptop and puts it in his bag. “I need to go to the library. Proxy isn’t working. I have a new idea for thefacebook. Relationship status--” Mark stands up and walks towards the staircase.

“I actually dropped by ‘cause I need my econ textbook, I left in your room the other day.”

“You’ll get it later. Once they’re done fighting,” Mark says, matter-of-fact. “Since when do you even study?” 

“Fighting? Are Chris and Dust okay?” Eduardo asks. 

“They’ll be fine. Relax.”

“Um--”

“They’re arguing over this girl from my art history class,” Mark says as he starts going down the stairs. “Forgot her name. I think it was… Stella… Stacy... Ste…” 

Eduardo stops at the banister and looks back at the suite door. “You sure we should leave them?”

“Stephanie. Yes, that’s it. Stephanie Attis.” Mark’s voice echoes from below. “You coming?” 

Eduardo sighs, then starts going down the stairs too. “Is she pretty or something?” he asks.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eduardo met Stephanie Attis for the first time in 2015. She died just six months before, caught in the crossfire of a gangster conflict in the streets of New York City. Dramatic, but also very her.

She’s stunning. Breath-taking, the type of breath-taking that makes you freeze on the spot so you could ogle. Chestnut shoulder-length hair, mesmerizing eyes, perfect bow-shaped lips.

“You’re staring into space, love,” she says, voice like velvet, looking up from her phone. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Mark’s face flashes across his mind for a split second.

Eduardo shakes his head lightly. “Who?”

She rolls her eyes and curls a lock of hair around her finger.

“My friends would kill to be on a date with you,” Eduardo sighs. “And here I am. I get to have you forever even though I have zero interest in you.”

Stephanie smiles briefly. “Lucky you, lucky me.” She picks up her duffle bag and assault rifle and leaves the room. “You coming, lover boy?” 

Eduardo looks down at the book, Ovid’s Metamorphoses, in his hands. “Yeah. In a bit.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mark picks Eduardo up at the airport. He’s in nothing but a hoodie and shorts; he hadn’t bothered with an umbrella despite the downpour outside.

“Mark?” Eduardo calls out.

“Did you change flights?” Mark asks.

“No,” Eduardo answers. “You’re here early.”

“You were supposed to be on the next flight.”

“Then why are you here so early?” Eduardo asks.

Mark frowns, licks his lips, shifts on his feet. “The drive here was faster than I expected.” 

He’s lying. 

“I need to talk to you about something,” Mark admits. “It’s about… do you remember Sean? Sean Parker? Appletini? Marlins and trout--” 

“I get it. Sean Parker. What about him? Have you at least brought an umbrella?” Eduardo asks, looking out into the night, painted down with dark rain.

“Well. He lives just across from our house, with some girl called Sharon. He comes over and sticks around-- I swear I would have told you but I’d been busy. We got this whole Wall feature now-- Anyways, I saw my name in an email on his screen the other day, and I found some kind of setup. You know. Like a conspiracy scheme. And it involves me and you. I don’t know what’s going on, Wardo. But… I need you here,” Mark says, suddenly. “You have to stay. Promise me you’ll stay. Don’t leave. Please.” Mark is shaking.

Eduardo stands still, as though struck by thunder.

But he doesn’t stay.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Ship, two zero five, halfway. Speed, zero six knots. Six five feet. Set depth at one two feet.”

“Rig for silent running.”

“Forward room, lower the port sound-head.”

The lights dim, and the roaring water outside the submarine dies down into a hush, like time slowing. Eduardo looks about, nervous. He then grabs a notepad and quickly jots: hit? 

He shows it to Arthur.

Arthur glances at it, nods, solemn. “Children,” he mouths.

It’s worse than what they both imagine.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Temperature’s dropping. Eduardo hugs a child tightly in his arms, until the child succumbs to the cold and beyond. Eduardo's dried tears bite into his cheeks.

“I’m s-sorry we couldn’t find you s-sooner,” he whispers, sobs, holding the child’s corpse tighter.

“Edward,” Arthur murmurs, gaze low, voice on the edge of breaking. “Let go. We have to go.” 

They were only able to save five children. Out of sixty. 

The Wolves had come and gone like a storm.

Thunder.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When he tells Mark that he only had one friend, he didn’t expect Mark to look at him like that.

It’s funny how real things can get, even if Eduardo had set up the entire lawsuit.

It’s even more surprising when Sy reveals that Mark had tried dissuading his lawyers from looking into the chicken cannibalism ordeal.

Mark is, and will always be, something that Eduardo cannot predict, cannot control. 

Someone he cannot have.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
So when Stephanie and Eduardo both wake up abruptly, panting, heart tingling, fleeting pain in their skulls, Mark Zuckerberg’s face imprinted in their minds, they look at each other in shock.

“Oh,” Stephanie says. Her eyes are bright, her fingers trembling. She’s beaming.

“Don’t,” Eduardo groans. 

“Oh!” Stephanie is ecstatic.

“Spare me.”

“My mother always used to say, careful what you wish for,” Stephanie singsongs as she ties her hair up and gets up to grab her phone on the dresser. She’s only got a see-through shirt on.

“I am positive I never wished for eternal pain,” Eduardo says.

Stephanie picks up Eduardo’s bag and throws it at him. “Quit whining. Let’s go fetch your predestined mate, pet.”

Eduardo turns and grumbles into his pillow.

It’s 2018. Can’t he catch a break?  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mark died from a bullet through his brain. He was then tied to a rock and dumped into a lake.

“I know the lake,” Stephanie says, lollipop in her mouth. “I used to spend summers nearby.”

“I was really hoping we’d take our time.”

Stephanie’s eyes narrow. She picks up her stuff and looks about ready to hit the road. “Honey, the guy’s drowning over and over. Every minute counts.”

Eduardo squeezes his eyes shut. He had completely forgotten. “Sorry, I just—”

“Need time? I know. You can take your time after we fish him up.”

Stephanie opens the door and walks out without looking back.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They stand before still water, taking in the expansive view. 

It’s greener than the ocean, and far milder.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Immortals don’t grow on trees, better get to work,” Stephanie announces, and starts stripping off her clothes. 

Eduardo looks away. 

“You need to get used to this,” Stephanie remarks. When Eduardo looks back, she’s in a bikini, and it makes him mildly uncomfortable.

“Say that after you’ve been through a world war underwater for at least a decade,” Eduardo replies dryly.

“Sweetie.” Stephanie looks at him fondly. “I meant, you need to get with the times and stop thinking that ladies can’t show a little skin.”

Eduardo scoffs. He takes off his jacket, his shirt, his pants. “I can handle this.”

Stephanie raises an eyebrow. “Oh. Can’t stand to share your damsel in distress?” 

“Shut up.”

“Your sweet little mermaid?”

Eduardo throws his boot at her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It’s the thought that Mark would be going through what Eduardo went through all those years ago, alone and hurting under the sea, that makes him suck it up and dive in.

When he breaks the surface he can feel his heart pound, constrict, hold still. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He can’t feel. His ears fill out; his nose stings.

Trauma holds him fast in its palm, and he panics.

He’s drowning. For a moment, he forgets where and when he is and falls back into that endless cycle. He struggles, brings his hands to his face, screams, but it’s no use. Of course it’s no use. 

“Let go.”

Arthur’s voice echoes softly.

“Don’t leave. Please.”

Eduardo’s lungs collapse. He reaches up. 

At least there’s light here. Sunshine twinkling up above.

His heart stops.

But this time, Eduardo relaxes, lets go.

Death strokes his cheek twice before Eduardo wakes again.

This time, it’s quiet underwater. Light trickles in, touches the bottom of the lake, welcomes him in peace.

And soon enough, Eduardo sees Mark.

He hasn’t changed. He’s in a hoodie, shorts. Barefoot. He’s unconscious, eyes closed. He’s floating, going through the motions. He’s there, dreaming between life and death. 

Eduardo reaches out for him and then, like an anchor, a sense of reality tugs when he touches Mark.

So this is what he’s going to live with. The horrors of WWII, thalassophobia, immortality, and now, his bane.

He leans forward, and he feels it again. Water rushing, water shushing. The cycle of life renewing.

His lungs collapse.

His vision blurs.

He closes the distance and presses his lips against Mark’s.

His heart stops.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mark takes it all rather well. They’ve got him wrapped in a big towel and a blanket, and put him next to the fireplace. He looks a little ill, but he’s calm.

“Hey Zuckerboy, would you be able to hack into NSA or something and delete our files? Erase us from everything?” Stephanie says. “It would be handy.” 

Mark looks at her like she’s got two heads. “You look familiar.”

Stephanie laughs wholeheartedly. “Never heard that one before.”

Mark doesn’t answer, only wraps the blanket around him tighter. It’s clear the cogs in his mind are churning at full throttle. Eduardo wonders what he’s thinking.

“Take it easy,” Eduardo says. 

Mark doesn’t look up at him at all.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Two days later, Mark gets his hands on a gun and shoots Stephanie between her eyes and then himself through the temple while Eduardo is out doing groceries.

“Savage,” Stephanie says when she comes to. She throws up the bullet, wipes the blood off her forehead, and examines her healed wounds in a pocket mirror. “We still haven’t tested the theory of whether we scar, so can you refrain from shooting at my face next time?”

Mark exhales slowly, touching his healed temple where the bullet fell out.

“Mark, are you okay?” Eduardo asks.

“Blatant favoritism,” Stephanie murmurs. 

Mark looks up, and says, “I think.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It takes Mark a month to fully get a hold of himself and come to terms with immortality. It’s fast enough, considering Eduardo took thirty years, and Stephanie six months.

Of course, when given a laptop and infinite time, it’s easy for Mark to forget about the rest of the world.

Mark erases them from everything, everywhere. He forges better papers than Eduardo ever did, gets them passports, rewrites their files, makes them more human, more normal, less immortal, less monstrous. It’s challenging to erase The Mark Zuckerberg of course, but Mark makes it work. People forget about the has-beens. It’s human nature.

It’s almost too easy for Mark. And really, Eduardo should have been suspicious because no one can take immortality this well the first time unless they’re a sociopath. Or… whatever Stephanie is.

It’s not until a year later, when Mark flinches at pool water splashed in his direction that Eduardo sees it.

Mark’s insecurities, his aquaphobia, his distrust, and the distance Eduardo’s kept between him and Mark.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Eduardo approaches Mark. 

“We need to talk,” he says. 

“About what?” 

“You, me. Us.”

“What, does the age gap bother you?” Mark says, scoffing.

Eduardo sighs. “I did what I did back then because I couldn’t have you. You should know what that means now that you’re immortal too.”

“Just because I can’t die doesn’t mean I don’t want to live,” Mark says. “It makes me understand it less, Wardo.” 

Eduardo bites his lower lip. Mark uses the nickname rather too casually, and he can’t decide if he likes it or not. “I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you eventually, to time. Or death, for that matter.”

“You lost me anyway. In fact, you never had me in the first place.”

Eduardo exhales as steadily as he can. “Do you really want to do this the hard way, Mark? Because we’re looking at an indefinite amount of time together, and if we can’t figure this out, then we’re basically just subscribing to some fucked-up Sisyphus program for the rest of our lives, if that’s what you want to call this.”

Mark studies Eduardo. “You have a copy of Metamorphoses in your bag.” 

Eduardo runs his fingers through his hair. “So what?”

“You like myths?” Mark deadpans, sitting back.

“Not particularly.” 

“So it’s just for show?”

“I read this book like a billion years ago, why the fuck would I need to show off anything like that—”

Stephanie bursts into the cabin, but neither Eduardo or Mark so much as flinch. “Hey old ladies,” Stephanie exclaims, panting, “I’m back, and so are the gunmen who are after us, so let’s pack our shit and hit the—” 

She is shot through the chest and head and tumbles forward, crashing to the floor in a puddle of blood. 

Eduardo picks up a rifle and tosses Mark a glock.

“Coward,” Mark says, apropos of their conversation. He leans against the door frame and then starts shooting at the incoming men.

“I’m the one who said we need to talk for fuck’s sake,” Eduardo snaps. 

“Stop beating around the bush then—”

“What bloody bush—” Eduardo says, gunning down four men in a row. They duck when the mob starts shooting back. 

“Today is the day you two idiots decide to talk? Really?” Stephanie groans. She pushes herself up and spits out several bullets. “How does our situation scream romance?” 

“Not my fault that getting a confession out of Wardo is like pulling teeth,” Mark says. He shoots the last of men and reloads.

“A confession? What are you, a priest?” Eduardo shouts back.

“I’m Jewish,” Mark says, with a certain amount of pride and offence. 

“And a veritable asshole.”

“You kissed me underwater. What does it mean?” 

Eduardo wants to punch Mark. He didn’t even know that Mark knew. “You’re infuriating,” he says, finally.

“You both are,” Stephanie says, dusting her lap off. “You know, I’d love to see the rest, the drama is first-rate, top-notch, but I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check. We need to fucking move out.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They don’t talk for a week after that, but Mark doesn’t seem to have any qualms about it, and honestly, Eduardo doesn’t feel all that much troubled about it either. Maybe it’s immortality smoothing out the rough edges.

It’s undeniable, however, that they have problems talking.

They start doing vigilante work to pass time. At least Eduardo and Mark are so naturally compatible as teammates that it’s not hard to get jobs done, even without communicating. They wiped out two meth labs in the past week almost effortlessly. They cover each other’s backs, look over one another’s shoulders, support each other when one is down.

“Next thing you know, you’ll be finishing each other’s sentences,” Stephanie remarks. “That is, if ever you guys decide to talk.”

“We have nothing to talk about,” Eduardo and Mark both reply. They glare at each other.

Stephanie rolls her eyes. She takes out her phone and then says, “sure then, maim each other if that’s your thing. I won’t judge.”

She walks out the room and disappears down the hall.

Eduardo and Mark stay quiet for a bit.

“You think she would have been Dustin’s type?” Mark says.

Eduardo looks up, confused. “Who?”

Mark scowls. “Who else?” 

Eduardo sighs. “Remember that day Chris and Dustin were fighting and we went to the library? I went back later for my econ textbook. Walked right in on Chris and Dustin making out on the couch.”

Mark blinks. “Well, they didn’t end up together.”

Eduardo is surprised. “Really? Shit. I thought-- I always thought they were made for each other.”

“Chris married this guy called Sean in 2012.”

Eduardo bristles slightly at the name. 

“Not that one,” Mark says.

“Right.”

“Dustin met Cari soon after Chris found Sean. They’re both happy. I think.” 

It’s comforting, talking about the easier side of the past, but Eduardo knows what’s coming, the way he knows when it’s about to shine or rain.

“Stephanie told me you died drowning too. During the war,” Mark says. “For thirty years.”

“It wasn’t her story to tell.”

“You have thalassophobia. It’s not rocket science, figuring it out. Once you put immortality into the equation, it’s only a matter of when.”

“Do I get to hear what happened to you, then?”

“I joined a network of black-hats,” Mark says.

“What’s that?”

“Illegal hackers.”

Eduardo frowns. “Why would you--”

“It’s complicated. I owed someone something. One thing led to another.”

“Nothing with you is simple, is it?”

“You could have let Steph do it.”

“Do what?”

“You could have let Steph save me instead. From the lake.”

Eduardo exhales. “I don’t really like other people taking care of my business.”

“She’s not ‘other people,’” Mark says. “And I’m not your business.”

Eduardo looks down. “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

Mark stands up and walks over to Eduardo’s seat. He sits on the armrest. Eduardo gets nervous almost instantly.

“The kiss,” Mark says. “It wasn’t a mistake. Right?”

Eduardo looks up. He bites the inside of his cheek. “It was. I wasn’t planning to do it.”

Mark is quiet.

Eduardo takes a couple of deep breaths. “I was caught up in the moment. It was overwhelming. I’m sorry. I mean, usually I’d go on a couple more dates and build up the mood—”

Mark turns to Eduardo and climbs into his lap, rests his arms over Eduardo’s shoulders. “Wardo, please. Just do it.”

Eduardo laughs, sheepish. “You were semi-unconscious and I’m sorry I took advantage of that—”

Mark leans down and kisses Eduardo, full-on. 

It tastes like water. Not brine, not salt, which is funny. It feels like a whole different world, and Eduardo can’t help but take and take and take, like it’s the panacea, the cure to his century-old miseries.

When they finally break apart, Mark looks at Eduardo with a smirk on his face and victory in his eyes.

“You owe me several of these,” Mark says, tapping Eduardo’s lips with his index finger. “For the hurtful things you said during the depositions, for the ridiculously convoluted set-up you did to get yourself out of Facebook, and this entire year of denial.”

Eduardo smiles. “I can get behind that.” 

Eduardo leans up and kisses Mark on the corner of his mouth. It’s delicate and makes his insides melt. “One down.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“Are we the one percent of stories that stray from mythological tropes?” Eduardo asks. They’re cuddling on the armchair, hair dishevelled, clothes a mess.

“Who cares,” Mark says, closing his eyes. 

Eduardo laughs.

For the first time in a long time, when Eduardo falls asleep later that night, his forehead against Mark’s back, he doesn’t dream.

**Author's Note:**

> The second chapter of this will be an epilogue kind of, and will be fluffy. Or sexy. Or both.
> 
> I promise.
> 
> (also hahaha imagine Arthur, who appears mostly in Eduardo's memories and dreams... is actually an extractor or inceptor. Ooohh. And Mark? Mark has money.)


End file.
